Why the Wind Goes and Comes Back
by SweetandUnknown
Summary: "When you decide to visit, you tell yourself it's not to see her. You're growing up and moving on from childish fantasies. You also tell yourself that what happened after Mr. Schue's non-wedding won't happen again, but the only reason you're visiting is because you hope it will." - Post-"I Do", Quinn-centric, Quinntana friendship, college!Faberry
1. I'm Waiting on Your Steps

Summary: "When you decide to visit, you tell yourself it's not to see her. You're growing up and moving on from childish fantasies. You also tell yourself that what happened after Mr. Schue's non-wedding won't happen again, but the only reason you're visiting is because you hope it will." Quinn-centric, Faberry

A/N: I haven't written fan fiction in a long time. Probably about four years. But I started this and haven't been able to stop. This is slightly AU, taking place after "I Do." Quinn never had a fling with a professor. Also, you'll notice the timeline is slightly different in that I let more time pass between certain events that happened in the show (which I pick and choose to include). It's mostly an exploration of Quinn, starting with Quinntana, but just know that I am a Faberry and Brittana fan.

This is also greatly influenced by Anis Mojgani's poem "Baptism." Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Why the Wind Goes and Comes Back**

_Chapter 1:_

_your body is a church whose doors close to me  
__I'm waiting on your steps trying not to tremble  
__I don't know any other place that I can go and pray inside of_

_February 2013:_

When you decide to visit, you tell yourself it's not to see her. You're growing up and moving on from childish fantasies. You also tell yourself that what happened after Mr. Schue's non-wedding won't happen again, but the only reason you're visiting is because you hope it will. (You haven't prayed since you returned from Ohio because you get flushed when you realize what hands and fingers can do when they aren't locked together in prayer.)

_"I had fun seeing you... And I've been meaning to visit New York for a while. I'm only a couple hours away."_

_"Then get your ass here, Q."_

So you finish the school work you owe early, lie to your professors for the first time about why you would be missing a day of class, and pack your things for a long weekend in New York.

You hold your MetroNorth pass the entire train ride. You stare at it for a couple of minutes and wonder if Rachel ever looks at hers and thinks of spontaneously visiting you in New Haven. You know you're not a good enough reason to visit Connecticut, that you would have to be the one to ask, and that Rachel would never randomly leave - she's had the same dream since she was three years old, and that dream is in New York.

* * *

You hug Santana as soon as you greet each other in Grand Central, and for a moment you wish you felt nervous, wish there was something to be apprehensive about. You exhale a sigh of relief and disappointment into her shoulder. You wonder if it ever gets easier to learn to love differently. (You know not to ask Santana this.)

"I still can't believe you haven't been here in so long," she says, picking up your bag and starting to haul it up the uneven steps. "And that it took Lady Hummel calling you to get you here last time."

"Well, you weren't living here at the time," you say with a shrug as you enjoy watching Santana struggle to carry your bag up the three flights of stairs. You know not to comment on her chivalry if you ever want her to help you again. "And there was the shopping."

Santana pulls her keys from her pocket, "Oh please, you were just hoping to see Berry's lady lumps in that terrible student film," she teases.

You're happy that the lock is finicky and Santana starts ranting in Spanish as she pulls at the door handle. She doesn't notice your reaction to her teasing; you wouldn't hear the end of it if she had seen your cheeks flush.

Santana tells you that Rachel is going to a workshop and a show for class tonight. Relief and disappointment escape in a sigh again, and something in your chest shakes at the sound of her name - a weathervane on an old barn creaking awake - and you realize you can't remember the last time you said her name aloud.

* * *

You go to Williamsburg for dinner and people watch, laughing lightly at Santana's commentary.

"I'm 90 percent sure he's wearing a carpet disguised as a vest," Santana says, sipping from her Diet Coke, "Berry's old wardrobe would fit right in here."

You chuckle as you stab at your salad, wondering if Rachel's animal sweaters are collecting dust back in Ohio, or if they're tucked away somewhere in their apartment.

"God forbid you lived here; I don't think I could let you," Santana rants, waving her fork at you, "You would find so many people like you, and then they'd make you super hipster. Next thing you know, you'd all be living in some hipster loft and painting hipster things on each other naked or whatever they do."

"Didn't you do something like that last week?"

"That's beside the point."

You hide your smirk with your glass of water, sipping from it to swallow the laughter.

Santana starts to sweet talk the server when he walks over to check on the table. He's a cute, bearded musician who lives in Bushwick (which is a pretty common thing, you start to notice), and it turns out he knows a good number of bars in the area.

* * *

You are confused why you keep drinking it, and why anyone would like whiskey. Apparently musician server, who got off work conveniently as you and Santana left, only drinks whiskey and terrible beer. You don't think much of him, just some guy you met, so you can't even begin to wrap your head around the fact that Santana is actually flirting back.

At one point, he orders you a shot and a beer. You cringe at the thought of the calories, and you swear that the last sip of whiskey you had ten minutes ago is still burning your throat.

You do it anyway because you're here for fun. Because, even though musician server continues to lean in close to Santana and some guy in a beanie has struck up conversation with you about Foucault, you feel Santana's hand run from your knee to the inside of your thigh.

* * *

Santana gives Jeremy (musician server) a brief kiss on the lips at the end of the night. You just shake his friend's hand and tell him to read more philosophy and theory before he talks about it to strangers. He laughs, and you give him a small wink.

"I'll call you," Jeremy shouts as you and Santana hop into the nearest cab.

You lean your head back against the headrest as Santana tells the driver how to get to her apartment. When you open your eyes and look outside the window, you don't see much - just lights for gas stations and bodegas.

You turn and look at Santana, about to tell her that approximately 50 thousand cabs run throughout New York. But you stop caring and thinking when you see her eyes scan your body.

You've both seen each other naked on various occasions, but Santana's gaze seems to drag a light touch along your spine. You realize you like it because she's looking at you as if she hasn't seen you at your worst, as if she hasn't touched your body - as if you both met tonight and agreed to go home together as strangers.

Your lips crash together, and you're sure that bruised lips will always make you think of her and your mutual understanding of unrequited love.

* * *

You're hungover, and you desperately want to brush your teeth. You forgot your toothpaste, and, for some reason, the toothpaste is out of sight in the bathroom.

You're looking in one of the drawers when you hear "Sorry, I didn't-"

You spin around, as if you've been caught snooping. "Hey... Kurt," you say, standing awkwardly in your boxer shorts and one of Santana's t-shirts.

Kurt's quick. You know this. You know he knows. You may have been quiet, and Santana is good at swallowing whimpers when her fingers are inside you, but you know the paper mache walls and curtains can't hide everything.

"Toothpaste?" you say, unsure of what Kurt's facial expression means.

"Drawer on the far right," he says, now looking a little shocked as he processes it all. You see him wondering if there is a fault in his logic. "Rachel and I are making breakfast if you want."

You just nod before he walks away.

Your mind races as you get changed. You should have been more careful, less reckless, more in control. You realize your hands are shaking as you walk toward the kitchen, so you shove them in your pockets. You first see Santana cradling her head at the table, her other hand wrapped around a chipped mug full of coffee.

"So Santana, who'd you stumble in with at four in the morning?" Her tone is teasing, and it's not meant to mean much.

You walk in and the weathervane in your chest meets a hurricane.

"Quinn! When did you get here?" Rachel asks excitedly, dropping her spatula into the pan, sending bits of fake egg flying.

"Yesterday afternoon."

"Oh right! Santana told me you were coming," you can see Kurt in your peripheral trying to subtly shake his head at Rachel. You appreciate the gesture even though it's not helping, "and I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to really clean. The living room is not really the best place to sleep at the moment..."

You watch her figure it out. Your face gets warm. You wonder if your drunk self is even more self-sabotaging than your sober self. The weathervane aches but keeps spinning anyway. You have to stop the wind in your throat from shaking your voice.

You don't really meet her eyes, "It's fine, Rachel," you say in a voice so quiet that the hum of your blood in your arteries seems even louder. You clear your throat and add, "I like the changes you guys have made with the place."

It shouldn't feel this awkward, but you're you and Rachel is still Rachel. Because you haven't seen her, because you purposely put distance between you both, you forgot how easily she takes your breath away - how bright she still shines.

* * *

You meet a really nice sophomore named Pete on the train back to Yale. You recognize him because he works at the coffee house you frequent after class. He's your favorite barista/DJ because he always gets your order right, and when he first served you, he was playing the White Stripes.

You think God is watching because it seems pretty significant that Pete played _Get Behind Me Satan_.

You find out that Pete can talk for years about music if you let him. Sometimes, when he talks about a song, you see the memory attached in his eyes. He transferred out of Berklee after his freshman year, trading in his bass for a degree in education.

"I'm not the rock star type," he tells you with a chuckle, "But I want other people to have their go if they want to be famous. I'd love to be the person who put that instrument in a kid's hands."

You wonder if his heartbeat matches the rhythm of whatever songs he talks about.

"What about you? Going to be famous someday?"

You shake your head, "I like to read and write. I always liked school, so maybe education will be my thing," you shrug and a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth, "I know someone who's going to be a star, and I'm nowhere near as talented as her. I think I'm more the type to write and admire the stars."

* * *

You're writing a cover letter to intern at Yale University Press when you get a g-chat message from Rachel.

**Rachel:** hey

**me:** Hi. How are you?

**Rachel:** that's rather formal of you, quinn.

**me:** ha. sorry, writing a cover letter. hard to snap out of it.

You see her typing. Your letter is forgotten as you wait.

**Rachel:** we haven't talked much lately.

You hope she doesn't try and talk about what happened when you last visited. You went out for lunch with Santana after the breakfast debacle, and when Rachel tried to see if you could all get dinner that night, you pretended to remember that you owed a paper by Monday. Even though you wish you stayed for an extra day in New York, you are happy to be back. You are happy you met Pete. You are happy that Rachel can't see you chewing nervously on your lip.

**Rachel:** which is my fault. i'm sorry i haven't used your metronorth pass. i'm still finding my way around here and with the course load and everything, it's hard to find time.

**me:** I know, Rachel. No worries.

**Rachel:** how's everything in New Haven?

**me:** Good.

You accidentally send it too soon. It seems too quick of a response, like a lie. But you are. You're okay. You're getting by. You and Pete are getting lunch tomorrow. But you also are realizing the girls in your dorm aren't friends now that the second semester has begun and people are finding their groups. You feel like you kind of got lost in school work on purpose during the first semester. Your cold aura and silence always protected you and made you strong at McKinley; here it just turns people away, and you wish you could shed that part of your skin.

**me:** i'm busy. classes are a lot of work, but nothing too difficult.

**Rachel:** i'm glad :)

i was thinking about you earlier. i saw an amazing student production with Brody.

**me:** what was it about?

You feel nervous and you hate it.

**Rachel:** a young girl who is adopted, who desperately wants to find her biological mother. it's beautiful and hit close to home for me. and it reminded me how wonderful you are. i don't mean to get so serious and personal, but i wanted to tell you that you including Beth in your life is incredible.

You don't respond for a few moments, your fingers frozen over the keyboard of your laptop. Your heart's spinning weathervane is making you feel dizzy.

**me:** thanks Rachel. that means a lot. i love her a lot, and i'm happy she has someone who loves her and can raise her how she deserves to be raised.

**Rachel:** and you'll be there in your own way. you're so smart and she's going to grow up so proud of you.

You cry silently at your desk. You know Shelby's relationship with Rachel is not the best, but (like your relationship with Shelby) it's healing.

**me:** you know you're the most talented person i ever met, right? don't let new york get you down.

**Rachel:** thanks, Quinn. you have to promise to visit again soon.

**me:** i promise.

* * *

Thanks for reading. Should be able to post more within the next week. Reviews make me smile :)


	2. This Heavy Coat Called Mine

**Why the Wind Goes and Comes Back**

_Chapter 2:_

_it's why still when I'm close to you sometimes my skeleton shivers electric__  
__and why sometimes I shudder heavy in this heavy coat called mine_

_March 2013:_

Pete comes with you to church one Sunday. He's an atheist, but no one there has to know it. You notice how you and Pete avoid the Holy Water when you enter.

You consider asking him if he knows that his name means "rock," a name given to Simon of Bethsaida by Jesus.

Instead, you whisper the Psalm being read.

_Have mercy upon me, O God, after Thy great goodness__  
__According to the multitude of Thy mercies do away mine offences.__  
__Wash me throughly from my wickedness: and cleanse me from my sin.__  
__For I acknowledge my faults: and my sin is ever before me._

* * *

You don't call ahead. You just show up in Bushwick on a Saturday afternoon a few weeks after your previous visit with a bottle of cheap wine and some cheese from a Brooklyn cheese shop.

Santana just laughs and pulls you through the door. She's dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, and you think Santana looks best when she doesn't give a fuck - she carries herself differently.

You talked to her on the phone a few nights before, and she's hit a point of disillusionment - she can't get any acting or singing gigs like she wants. You pretend that this visit is to cheer her up, but it's for you because you and Rachel started talking more, because Rachel started telling you more about Brody, because Brody is probably moving in.

"You better not be trying to woo me," Santana says with a smirk.

"I just like eating cheese with a buzz, and it looks like you need some company," you throw back at her.

She gives you a wink, "Put the cheese away, but bring the wine to my room."

You tell Santana about Pete as you drink your third glass of wine. She asks if you're in love, and you don't know how to answer.

She misinterprets your hesitation, "Oh shit, is this like... serious?" she asks, putting down her wine glass.

"No. I mean, I think it's love, but not like..." you almost say everything because when Santana looks like this, like the friend she is outside of cheerleading uniforms, you want to trust her. You're amazed when you don't, that the wine didn't warm your lips enough to make them fall open and spill.

Santana sighs and brings her glass to her lips again, watching you as she swallows slowly. "Not like me and Britt."

You nod.

"More like a healthier version of me and you."

You laugh. Your stomach feels warm, and you think that Santana looks like the right kind of beautiful.

As you top off your glass of wine, Santana informs you that Kurt is helping organize a huge event for Vogue, and Rachel is on a brunch date with Brody.

You have the place to yourselves for at least two hours.

* * *

After you both drink enough wine, the glasses are left on the floor as she pushes you into the mattress. The only softness comes from the cushioned bedsprings.

Santana's lips are firm, her tongue demanding. But she doesn't press her mouth to yours when she slips her fingers inside you. She lets you hear yourself, the low moan that seems to come straight from your chest.

"Harder," you whisper, even though there's no one to be quiet for.

She rests her head on the pillow above your shoulder, breathing heavily into your ear as she increases her pace. You're _fucking_, and you both need this. You both know that you and her are thinking of other people.

So you start whispering dirty things in one another's ear.

When you come, unholy prayers leave your mouth without consent.

* * *

You're sitting on the floor of your dorm with Pete, passing a pint of rum back and forth as you talk. You have been planning on telling someone. It's getting to a point that when you think about it, the words stick in your lungs so you can hardly breathe.

So after you sip from the bottle, you awkwardly lean across both your crossed legs and kiss him on the lips.

You do it, and then you tell him, "I'm gay."

He takes the rum from you and sort of tilts his head to the side and looks at something on your desk behind you.

His eyes meet yours again, and he takes a quick sip from the bottle. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand as he shrugs.

"Okay," he says.

You know he doesn't love you like that, that in the seconds it took for him to respond, he was probably contemplating what it would be like dating you. (You both know that's not how you'll love each other.)

He moves so he's sitting next to you and wraps his arms around your shoulders. You nuzzle into his chest, and you feel your tears get caught in his sweater. He doesn't let go.

"You're a rock," you say into his chest.

"Um, thanks?" Sometimes Pete doesn't understand your stream of consciousness and what words come out of you for whatever reasons, but you like how kind he is, how patient he is.

"Peter means rock."

The next day you wake up with a glass of water next to your bed. You then notice two Tylenol next to the glass, placed over a post-it with a heart drawn on it.

You let out a light laugh when you see he wrote, "_('No hetero')_" beside the heart.

* * *

The third time you visit, you know that Rachel will be getting home with Brody. That he lives there now. (Ever since Facebook told you so, you have hardly spoken to Rachel.)

Santana hates it. She goes on a rant, arguing that there's something off, and that Rachel shouldn't be with a guy who's more Ken doll than human. Given the facts that Santana doesn't care much for Brody and you don't want to hear about him, you cut her off mid-sentence and kiss her hard.

You push her into her room so she falls back onto her bed. Completely sober and in control, you don't let her touch you.

She comes as you hear the door of the apartment slide open.

"Apparently Santana has company," you hear Brody say.

Santana starts to quietly laugh, out of breath, still riding out the trembling from her orgasm.

You smirk up at her as you trail your tongue down her stomach. She looks at you, half-dazed, half-intrigued as go down on her because you can, because you don't care anymore. (But that's not what the wind in your lungs is telling you.)

You wish Rachel and Brody would leave, but according to Santana, tonight is their movie night.

"It's gross," Santana mumbles into her pillow. Her eyes are closed, and you refrain from mentioning that her and Britt had movie nights almost every weekend in high school. "I didn't know how many Broadway musicals have a movie version until I moved here."

You laugh. You're sure she has watched at least half of them with Kurt and Rachel. Part of you goes off into an alternate universe where you'd be there in high school, sitting on a couch with Rachel and Kurt, watching _Singing in the Rain_. You snap yourself out of it when your heart thuds pathetically against your sternum when you imagine secretly holding hands with Rachel under the blanket.

Santana's breath evens out, so you give her shoulder a light shove, "Are you falling asleep?"

"No," she replies with a yawn and a ridiculous stretch, "I'm just tired from... ya know, three orgasms." She opens one eye at you with a grin playing at her lips.

"You're welcome," you say, giving her a cheesy wink.

She laughs and smacks you with a pillow.

* * *

Santana returns the favor. Twice. You do your best to keep quiet, but Santana's also eager for a bit of revenge. You can hear Brody and Rachel critiquing _Chicago_, so you hope they can't hear you.

Kurt enters the apartment right before Santana's tongue does something amazing.

"Jesus. Fuck," you moan loudly, you hips lifting off the mattress.

"Oh god, again?" Kurt stage whispers to Rachel as his footsteps pass by Santana's room toward the living room.

"I can hear you, Hummel!" Santana says from between your legs.

Now it's your turn to hit her with a pillow. She lets out a throaty laugh as you try and regain your breath and stop your legs from shaking.

* * *

You look at Santana's sleeping form, and your lips quirk into a small smile when she starts to lightly snore. It's one in the morning, and your dry throat is winning over your desire to avoid Rachel, Kurt, and Brody. You throw on a pair of Santana's gym shorts and a t-shirt and try to stealthily walk into the kitchen.

Kurt's sitting at the table with a cup of tea, headphones in as he reads some book called _Audition_.

You consider walking out, but he looks up and pops out an earbud before you can move.

"I feel like we should talk," he says.

You feel cornered, like when your father would clear his throat before speaking when it was just the two of you in a room - all you can do is wait.

"About?"

"Your sexual relationship with my roommate?"

You suddenly feel cold, so you take a seat across from Kurt and fold your arms around yourself.

"I don't really want to talk about this right now," you say quietly, your voice slightly raspy. You sometimes wish you could go back to the pink hair and the taste of cigarettes scratching your throat. People didn't try very hard to get anything out of you then, except Rachel.

"Brody and Rachel are heavy sleepers, and they always fall asleep before the end of their second movie," Kurt says, watching as you look toward the living room. He stands up and walks to the stove.

"To be honest," he says with a small sigh, as if trying to find the proper tone to begin with, "I get it - also slightly confused, but it really doesn't matter what I think." He drops a mint tea bag into a mug and pours some hot water from the kettle.

You wait. He sits back down and pushes the mug toward you. You're glad you have something warm to put your hands around, to keep your hands from fidgeting and showing how uncomfortable you are. You try not to think about the fact that you haven't washed your hands yet.

"What does matter is that you're careful."

"Is this an intervention?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow, "And are you trying to protect me or Santana?"

"Call it whatever, but I'm thinking of the both of you," he says before sipping his tea with such ease and eloquence he makes bourgeois people like her parents look like slobs. "I don't know where you're at, but knowing that Santana is on the rebound, I don't know if the two of you is a good idea. Didn't you both slap each other like... a month ago?"

You can't help but let out a breathy laugh, "Yeah. We are... not normal friends."

"Apparently."

"Look… we both need this," you confess. Something inside you aches, and you clench your jaw in hopes that no sound will escape.

Kurt looks at you for a moment, then nods, "Okay."

"I'm glad you care, though, Kurt."

He gives you a smile, "I do," he drinks some more tea before clearing his throat and adding, "But there need to be some rules or something, like soundproofing. It is seriously impressive how well Santana's voice carries in this apartment."

Your face gets hot, and Kurt just chuckles when he notices how embarrassed you are.

"I'll be more considerate," you say, standing up with your mug of tea. His smile is gentle, "Thanks... for everything."

"No problem, Quinn."

You like the way your name sounds in his voice. You like that he didn't ask, and you're grateful he didn't use the four walls of the closet against you. He's seen the monsters in there, and you're sure you used to be one of them. He's not pushing you in any way; he's just being a friend. You decide you really like Kurt.

* * *

The next day, you slip out of bed, leaving a still-snoring Santana in bed.

You're brushing your teeth when Rachel walks in. She's in one of Brody's t-shirts, and you have to look away from her tan legs and pink underwear with little unicorns on them. (You like to think Rachel Berry hasn't been completely changed by New York.)

She gives you a sleepy smile and a "Hi, Quinn," then reaches past you for her electric toothbrush. You give her a small nod to keep the toothpaste in your mouth, hoping that the shiver that shot down your spine wasn't visible.

You spit in the sink as Rachel hums to herself, probably perfectly timed to obtain optimal dental hygiene. You walk out of the bathroom before she finishes.

* * *

While you and Santana make plans for the day over coffee, Rachel invites you to breakfast at a small brunch spot next to McCarren Park; apparently Brody knows the sous-chef. You ignore Santana's confused look when you explain that you came to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art for an assignment. (You actually are studying ekphrasis in your Modernist poetry class, but the artwork for your poem didn't have to be in New York.)

Rachel pouts, and before she can ask, you say you have to catch an earlier train back for a late dinner with Pete. You excuse yourself from the kitchen to grab something from your bag, but you're really just hoping to leave before your vocabulary fails you, before Rachel cracks you open like she always does, before you tell her that you decided to major in English because you are trying to find the words that will make her fall in love, or the words that will make you fall out of it.

* * *

Santana never asks about the spontaneous trip to the Met. She sits next to you on the subway in silence. You try to push the image of Rachel kissing Brody "good morning" from your mind, and you try to put your suffering in perspective by reading "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus." It doesn't work. No wax wings. Just a human heart.

_a splash quite unnoticed  
__this was Icarus drowning_

* * *

Thanks for reading! Keep in mind, this is Quinn-centric and Quinntana is necessary for Quinn right now. Hopefully I'll have an edited chapter ready to go sometime next week. As always, I think reviews are lovely.


	3. Your Memory Carries a Similar Tune

Thanks for all the reviews and follows! Sorry for the wait. I had to do some real life writing which is not nearly as fun as writing this.

* * *

**Why the Wind Goes and Comes Back**

_Chapter 3:_

_when I was a boy I heard the song of a god on my bedroom floor__  
__singing out from between my hands clasped tight as a lock__  
__your memory carries a similar tune_

_April 2013_:

You feel strange. You feel like you can only think of one very specific thing at a time, but all your thoughts are trying to fight their way to the surface. It's a beautiful night, and you can see Jupiter shining beside the moon. (Pete made fun of you for looking up the stargazing calendar earlier that day.) You're lying on the quad with Pete and his friend Noelle. Noelle says she struggles with anxiety and depression, and you don't doubt it. She says she's healthy, that she's seeing a therapist, but she also admits that medicinal marijuana from Colorado is a plus.

"Sharing is caring," she says with a chuckle, taking a drag from the joint and passing it to Pete.

You want to ask how this alleviates her anxiety because you don't know what you're supposed to be thinking, what's right or wrong to do at the moment, whether you like your fingers interlocked on your stomach or tangled in the grass, why you really want cheddar Goldfish and chocolate milk, or why all you can do is look up at the sky and try to create constellations.

"I think Quinn's got a bit of couch lock," Pete says, propping himself on his elbow to look at you.

"Wha?" you manage to rasp out, coughing a little and sitting up. Your tongue feels dry and sticks to the roof of your mouth.

"And cottonmouth," Noelle says with a laugh, passing you a bottle of water.

"You never smoked in high school?" Pete asks as you take a big gulp of water.

"I told you - I had weekly drug tests for cheerleading," you say, drinking some more water before passing it back. You look at Pete and Noelle who are looking at you with half-lidded eyes and small smiles playing at their lips. You start giggling and the anxious, overwhelming thoughts start to dissipate.

"Is that even legal?"

"Weed's not legal," you say.

"No, I meant the drug testing."

You're still laughing, "I can't even begin to explain who my coach was and what she was capable of."

Pete's laughing now, "I'll admit I stalked you on Facebook a little, and you in a cheerleading uniform is so... weird."

"How's it weird?" You can't get rid of your smile. "Is it normal to feel like there are elastic bands pulling at my cheeks?"

"Totally normal," Noelle says as she drinks some of her water.

"I don't know," Pete says, grinning as he reclines onto the grass, "Cheerleading seems so... _loud_ and like... big personality. And you're so... _you_."

"I was a bitch," you say, lying back down into the grass.

You find the North Star and think of Rachel. You haven't been to New York in almost a month, but you have started talking to Rachel more in an attempt to be mature about all this - whatever the hell _this _is now. You also drunkenly sexted Santana a couple of weeks ago, which she is using as her platform of humiliation. Despite her teasing, she doesn't mention the fact that you said you wouldn't mind fucking her in a plaid skirt and sweater.

"You are a bit intimidating," Noelle says, opening a bag of chips, breaking you from your thoughts.

"But look, she's such a softy!" Pete says, poking you in the side. You let out a surprised snort, sending all three of you into a fit of laughter. "Maybe all this poetry stuff she's been reading has been melting her armor."

Pete hands you the joint and you take a small drag.

"I'm still tough," you say with a smirk, holding the smoke in, wondering how angry your pretty pink lungs will be tomorrow.

"Yeah, right," Pete says doubtfully.

"Yup. I had pink hair once. And I smoked cigarettes. And I had a really bad tattoo."

You say it because you think it's funny, even though you've done your best to keep this part of your history covered. Still, you end up showing Noelle and Pete what remains of your tattoo of Ryan Seacrest on your back (you started the tattoo removal over the summer), which sends Noelle off running for a bathroom before she pees her pants from laughing so hard. You don't feel ashamed or embarrassed, just amused by the stories you didn't know you could tell.

Pete tells you he needs to get up early and pulls you up from the grass. You dust yourself off in an exaggerated fashion and smile up at him.

"C'mere you nerd," he says, pulling you toward him.

You hug for a few seconds, and you breathe deeply, smelling Pete's clean laundry and simple soap smell, breathing in the season. You remember how much you love the smell of spring. Spring in Connecticut smells different, but you like it because it reminds you of Rachel's perfume.

He ruffles your hair a bit, and you lightly smack at his hand before he takes yours and walks you to your dorm. Pete gives you a hug goodbye and tells you he'll see you tomorrow when you come by for coffee.

Your phone rings as you're about to enter your dorm.

"Helloooo?" you say into your phone, knowing it's Santana.

"Q, I think I figured it out."

"What?" you say, confused and only half-listening as you dig into your bag for your keys.

"Mr. Plastic!"

"Who?"

"Brody! He's-"

"Santana," you cut her off, pulling your keys out, but taking a seat on a nearby bench, "Rachel is allowed to have feelings and stuff for Brody or whoever." You're determined to be an adult, but you feel the smoke from earlier casting clouds - trapped in your ribcage.

"Well, she's still in love with Frankenteen for some weird reason. So this guy is just a gross rebound. This is for Rachel's sake. I think he's -"

You just start laughing. "There's no conspiracy here. You're being so weird."

"I'm being weird?" she says disbelievingly, "You sound weird. Are you drunk?"

You try and hide the smile in your voice, "No. Not drunk."

"Oh my god, Q, are you high?"

"Bingo!"

"Oh Jesus. I'm not going to even bother trying to talk to you then," Santana says with a frustrated sigh, "I'm going to figure this out, but call me tomorrow."

"Will do. Talk to you later, San," you say, hanging up and walking up the stairs.

You start thinking about Brody and Rachel, and even though there's still a smile glued to your face, you can't shake the clouds out. You miss her. So you tell her that in a text message.

You accidentally go up an extra flight of stairs before you realize you passed your floor. You breathe a sigh of relief when you see an empty dorm room; you couldn't handle trying to small talk with your roommate when you're still feeling this high.

You try writing, but it only ends up being about where teddy bears and animal sweaters go to when people grow up.

* * *

Rachel responds later.

_:) Stay a while next time. I miss you too._

* * *

Pete's friends have kind of taken you in. They're kind, and they make you laugh. Your Ohio baggage feels lighter around them, and you're happy not to have "WMHS" stamped across your chest. Still, it was that high school hierarchy that made you join Glee. It was that diva of a girl who barged into your life and ruined everything you had planned. She is to blame for the best high school memories you have.

Noelle asks you about New York, what your New York friends like to do. You explain you don't know much, but that you've been a few times. They keep asking, so you start telling them the story of your first trip to New York - the pillow fight in the hotel room, Brittany singing "My Cup," Nationals, the viral video of Rachel and Finn known as "The T-Rex Eating the Jew," but you mostly talk about how Lima, Ohio somehow made a powerhouse like Rachel Berry who has had her eyes on New York since infancy.

You notice Pete looking at you with a small smile.

"What?"

He just shakes his head. You're about to push him for a real answer, but your phone buzzes - a text message from Santana.

You don't read it, assuming it's more conspiracy theories that can wait until later, but before you can put your phone away, it starts ringing.

You apologize to Pete and try not to interrupt the group's conversation as you get up to take the call.

"Hey, what's up?" you answer.

"Jesus, Quinn. I've been trying to get you to call me for ten minutes straight."

"What's going on?" You're immediately concerned because nothing about Santana's voice sounds calm.

"Rachel might be pregnant."

You wonder how many families a year are displaced by storms, what the inside of a tornado looks like - how small a human is in a vortex. You feel yourself spinning.

"Quinn?"

You're trying to find words as you sit at an empty table. "How did you find out?"

"I was doing my thing - snooping and looking through their stuff, trying to find out more about this Brody guy, and along with a wad of cash, I found a pregnancy test."

You don't bother to inquire about the cash. "It was positive," you state aloud.

"Quinn... I'm taking her to the doctor this afternoon. I know this is intense for you, but is there any way you could be here? For Rachel? I'm not good at this."

Suddenly, you feel lonely. Suddenly, you are a sixteen-year-old girl telling her boyfriend she's pregnant. You are a sixteen-year-old girl standing across from her father as he tells her to get out of his house. You are a sixteen-year-old girl with no one by her side.

"I can't."

"Quinn?"

You realize you're crying silently despite how your body shakes.

"I don't think I can," you say, clearer this time, but it's still a whisper.

You wait for Santana to say something, but there is only silence.

"I'm sorry, Quinn," she says finally, " I understand. And..." There's a pause, and you wish you could see Santana's face because she has never spoken in this voice before. "I wish I had known how to be there for you during sophomore year."

You inhale sharply, trying to remember that your feet are planted on the ground, that you are in the present. You aren't that sixteen-year-old girl anymore.

"Take care of Rachel," you say in as strong of a voice as you can manage.

"I will," she replies before hanging up.

* * *

You skip your classes and go to the church you went to with Pete. It's a Wednesday, so it's empty for the most part, and anyone passing through doesn't look at you.

You start reading from the Bible. You flip to the passage you always read in middle school, those times when Lucy forgot what love felt like, when Lucy felt ugly.

_And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. __  
__But the greatest of these is love._

You walk out of the church, knowing you won't find what you're looking for there.

* * *

You curl yourself up in bed, and your roommate, who is hardly ever in the dorm, finds you staring at the ceiling. She asks if you're sick, and you simply shake your head.

Pete comes by. You don't get up to answer the door, but he knocks for five minutes and tries to talk to you through the door. He walks away when you text him that you don't want to talk, that you'll see him tomorrow.

* * *

When you can't sleep any longer, you read the most abstract poetry you can find so you can project meanings and fail to understand the author's intentions and find comfort in that blindness.

Yet you find yourself praying over a poetry book. You don't know when you clasped your hands together, but you keep your hands there and continue praying for Rachel and Beth in metaphors.

An hour later, you have written a poem, and you put it in your box of things you plan to give Beth when she's older.

* * *

You pull out one of your photos of Beth from your drawer. You smile and think of how beautiful she is, how she inspires you.

You go into your phone contacts and hit "send" before you can change your mind.

"Hello?" her voice picks up on the other end.

"Hi, Shelby... It's Quinn."

* * *

You pick up on the first ring when Santana calls. It was a false alarm. You feel relieved for Rachel, that her dreams are still in tact, that she doesn't have to struggle with pregnancy in such a lonely place, that she doesn't have to go through what you did. At the same time, you are glad Santana and Kurt are there for her. You still don't know if your presence would have helped.

(You haven't let go of Beth's photo since you spoke to her on the phone.)

* * *

You have Pete over, and you pull out all your photos of Beth. You never meant to keep her a secret, but so rarely did you feel you trusted someone with such a huge part of yourself.

"She's almost three," you say slowly. You've never really done this. (Only once had your roommate asked about a photo of Beth, and it was "What's her name? She's a cutie." She probably assumed she was your niece.) "I lost my mind last year," you continue, pausing to take a shaky breath, "and in being so lonely, I thought being a mother, having someone to love so wholeheartedly would make me whole again."

Pete says nothing, but he walks over to you and holds you in his arms. "Each time I was going off the deep end," you say into his chest, "Rachel pulled me back."

"She sounds like quite the hero."

"The most obnoxiously bright star I know, always pulling me from dark places," you say. You internally scoff at yourself for being such a cliché.

"Well, I'm here for you, too. But rocks aren't as sexy as stars," Pete says. You laugh through some tears and wrap your arms around him.

* * *

She calls you and despite how much you've been reading and writing, you can't find any words to articulate a response.

"Quinn? Are you there?"

"Y-yeah, Rach, I'm here," you say, lying back on your bed and closing your eyes, so all you can see is her, sitting in her apartment - probably the kitchen, playing with the string of the tea bag that's dangling from an old mug full of hot water. "How are you doing?"

"I just wanted to talk to you because," you hear her take an unsteady breath, "Santana told me she called you, and I wanted you to know that I understand why you didn't come."

"I'm sorry, Rachel," you say quietly, feeling tears build up behind your closed eyes as you imagine her sitting in the doctor's office alone. "I wish I could have been there for you."

"No, don't feel that way. It was a lot for Santana to ask from you. You already do so much for your friends... for Beth."

You let out a short laugh, "No, I don't. I hardly do enough."

"Oh, Quinn, you're so hard on yourself," she says softly, and you imagine what her arms would feel like around you, her breath on your neck, how it would soothe you. "You aren't a typical mother, but you brought a beautiful life into this world. Shelby loves her and you love her. It's just different; you don't have to be by her side every day to love her."

You open your eyes; these are things you know and sometimes forget along the way. Hearing Rachel say them makes you believe them again.

"Quinn," she pauses, to see if you're still there, and she must hear your breathing because she continues, "you deserve to be loved. You're so beautiful in so many ways, but I don't know if you always know it." She pauses, seeing if you have a response. You only have a jumble of words and poetry caught in your dry throat.

"I might not know much," her voice is shaking, and she seems hesitant, "but I think the best thing you can do for Beth is love yourself. Don't feel bad for living your life, Quinn. You don't have to grow up so quick anymore. She'll be happy for you and love you no matter what, but if you love yourself, she'll learn to love you in such a special way."

You're sure if you died right now and someone did an autopsy, a whole romantic tragedy would unravel from your heart and lungs.

* * *

You get out of class, and it's one of those New England spring days - clear blue skies and sunshine with a slight breeze. You find a bench, pull out the bagged lunch you made, and open _Lunch Poems_. A date with Frank O'hara.

It's soon interrupted by your buzzing phone. You're about to hit the ignore button when you see "Shelby/Beth" on your screen. You pick up.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Quinn," Shelby says, and you can hear Beth in the background saying, "Hi! Hiiii! Hi!"

"Hi, how are you?" It's still strange, trying to talk to Shelby when you both put one another through hell last year.

"Good. Beth wanted me to call you so she could tell you about her day at daycare."

You smile and everything about this moment feels perfect. You hear Shelby give the phone to Beth.

"Hi Quinn," she says loudly. You laugh and say hi back.

Beth proceeds to tell you about the colors she learned, and you love every mispronunciation. She proudly counts to ten, and you grin when you hear Shelby helping her when she needs it.

Eventually Beth says she has to go have snack time and Shelby takes up the phone again.

"I showed her some more pictures of you and Noah," she says, "She loves talking to you, Quinn."

"Thank you," you say quietly, "Thanks for letting me still be a part of her life."

"Neither of us are proud about last year," she says gently, "And I want Beth to be proud of both her mothers. And I'm working on loving both my daughters."

You don't push her to talk more about Rachel, but you are happy to hear her including Rachel in her life.

"You're a great mother for Beth," you say in a tone you hope conveys your honesty.

There's a brief pause before Shelby speaks again. "Quinn?"

"Yes?"

"I know you were raised Catholic, and I was wondering... does it upset you if I don't raise her Catholic?"

"No, not at all." Your voice is quiet, and you hope she knows you have a tender smile tugging at your lips.

You both say your goodbyes and you hang up wondering why Shelby would ask. It was nice - growing up and believing in God, but there was the moment when God couldn't help and good people came and saved you. You're happy Beth will grow up believing in those people.

* * *

You're in your dorm room desperately trying to focus and prevent your eyes from glazing over some dense literary theory when your phone rings. You see it's Rachel and hesitantly pick up.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Quinn."

She doesn't sound upset, but she sounds... off. You can hear faint music in the background and assume she's at a bar, given that it's 2 AM.

"You okay?" you ask gently.

"I wanted to give Joe a break."

"Who's Joe?"

"The bartender. He's a really nice guy, but I told him all my woes and he has other customers."

"What's going on, Rach? What woes?"

You wish you had listened to Santana, but you also consider the fact that maybe you didn't want to know.

"Brody was a jig... _is _a gigolo."

You wait for her to start laughing. You wait for her to correct her drunken mispronunciation of some word. It doesn't come.

"I'm so sorry, Rachel," you say and mean it. You can feel the blood rushing through your veins and you imagine the valves in your heart shutting painfully like slammed doors. You wish you could be there.

"Can I have a shot?" you hear her ask.

"Maybe you shouldn't..." you don't finish. She can drink. She should. You decide you'll stay on the phone with her until she's in bed, or you'll call Santana to retrieve her.

You hear her take the shot and wait. You'd smile at her "Bleh, this is terrible!" if she weren't heartbroken.

"Wanna know the kicker?" she slurs. You know better than to respond. "Santana _booked_ an _appointment_ with him. He showed up, and when he tried to make an excuse, Finn punched him in the face."

"Wait, Finn was there?" You're confused as to how he even got there, but you believe it.

"Yup. Wish 'e told me he was in town," Rachel said slowly, "He literally came to New York to punch Brody in the face. Is that the kind of chivalry I should be opposed to as a modern, independent woman?"

You laugh lightly, "It's whatever you think of it."

"I'm glad someone punched him."

"Do you want me to punch him?" You would. You'd also pour bleach on all his satiny looking, too-tight t-shirts that perfectly displayed his physique.

Then there was Finn, always acting with brute force when words and tact failed him. But he was the one that was there. Not you.

"If you see him, sure." You can see Rachel sitting at the bar and giving an apathetic shrug. You know nothing can really make her feel better at this point.

"You deserve better, Rach. I know that's cliché, but you do. You're a star."

"But he was so sweet, and so pretty," she says rather pathetically.

"You're prettier." The words slip from your mouth.

"Aw, Quinn," Rachel coos, "I'll take it, coming from the prettiest and sweetest girl I know."

"_Sweet_?" you scoff, "You do remember high school, don't you?"

You cut off your stream of consciousness because your guilt complex had no place in this conversation.

"Your pornographic pictures of me were rather flattering. It reminded me of the graffiti in Pompeii."

Your face must be crimson, and you greatly appreciate the fact that this was not a drunk Skype call.

You hear her slur her address and are happy to hear she's in a cab.

"Are you on your way home?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry if I woke you," she says with a yawn.

"No, I was up reading."

"You can go back to reading if you want."

"I'll read, but I'll stay on the phone with you so I can make sure you get home safe."

"Aw, so chiverlerous... chivalrous," she tries again. "You're sour then sweet, Quinn."

You laugh. Drunk Rachel was way more endearing than you imagined, and you're kind of frustrated by that fact.

"I'll sing you a song to study to," she states. You don't bother arguing because you love her voice and even if you didn't, she would sing anyway.

She starts singing the stripped down version of "Sleepyhead" by Passion Pit. You wish it didn't sound as sad as you know she feels, but you know the importance of catharsis and keep quiet.

"You fall asleep?" you hear her whisper. You realize you might have, and you wish you could hear her singing with the sound of her apartment door closing every night. The sound of her voice arriving home.

"Maybe," you mumble.

"Thanks for picking up," she says quietly, and you imagine her trying to stealthily navigate her way to her room.

"No problem. Sleep tight, Rach."

"You too, sleepyhead."

After you hang up, you close your theory book that's open on your lap and read six of Anne Sexton's poems. When you can't sleep, you see that catharsis has its flaws.

* * *

"Sleepyhead" is a hat tip to bazinga01's "Undeniable" because it was the first Faberry fic I ever read and it's incredible and it still breaks my heart it's discontinued. Anyway, keep the feedback comin'! Thanks for all the love.


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